


Everything was going to be okay

by thewallflower07



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Murder, BAMF John, Cuddling, Death, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock-Freeform, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Touching, Protective John Watson, Sexual Harassment, Sherlock is in danger, Torture, heed the warnings, object insertation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 19:12:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13724190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewallflower07/pseuds/thewallflower07
Summary: Hanging was seen by many people as a quick and painless death, but there are actually four different ways for this method. The Oxford English Dictionary states that hanging in this sense is “specifically to put to death by suspension by the neck.“The first method of judicial hanging is the Suspension. The weight of the body causes the tightening of the noose around the trachea neck structure. There is no struggle and the person often goes immediately limp because their jugular vein and carotid arteries are blocked and the blood flow to the brain is reduced. Death by strangulation takes about ten to twenty minutes. It is presumed to be very painful due to the victims struggle for air against the compression of the noose and against the weight of the body.





	Everything was going to be okay

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags and the summary. Someone will hurt Sherlock very much in a cruel way.

 

“I am truly sorry for all the inconvenience this meeting must have caused you, Mr. Holmes.“

 

The talking man slowly moved around him. Sherlock had been pushed to the ground by two guards (both mid-fourties, one married, one divorced, no children, one dog) and his hands were bound tightly behind his back, even his ankles were cuffed together. They clearly knew of his hand-to-hand combat and prepared themselves. At least these kidnappers knew what they were doing, which was a very bad sign for him. He was also gagged, a black cloth stuck between his teeth, his mouth sealed with duct tape.

 

As for the inconvenience… Sherlock was on the way to Tesco to buy the milk. John had been a bit grumpy this week due to stress at work. He wanted to do his new boyfriend (it still felt weird to think about it, to name it) a favour.

 

His captor was now standing in front of him, smiling down. Sherlock didn’t recognize him, which annoyed him greatly. The man had just showered and now wore brand new, stainless clothing (boring sneakers, a black shirt and blue jeans). His hair was freshly cut and he was wearing gloves.

 

“Leave us alone, I can handle him.“

 

The two guards exited the room. The door must be behind his back, since Sherlock couldn’t see it. They had him blindfolded on his way to this room. The only piece of furniture was a table and a wooden chair. Sherlock couldn’t see if there were any objects lying on it. The room was brightly lit and there were no windows, only a hook dangling from the ceiling. His kidnapper was about a head taller than he was, approximately his age and Caucasian. He knelt down to his level and cupped his face with both of his hands. Sherlock tried to wrestle his head away from the unwelcoming touch, but the man was strong.

 

“As you can see, I have taken certain safety measures. I have studied your methods for month and prepared myself. I am confident that you won’t be able to gather anything worthwhile about this place or my person.“

 

Well, this might be true at this point, but even the smartest criminals will make a mistake sooner and later. Sherlock just wished the man would get on with it. His knees hurt from kneeling on the cold ground, his ankles were getting chaffed from the cuffs and he had lost all his feelings in his tightly bound hands. His mouth was dry in an unpleasant way, his tongue wooden.

 

“You should be proud of me, I was so patient in my planning! So many fellow colleagues had tried to get their hands on you in the past, but they always ended up dead or in prison. I don’t feel too strongly about either of these options, and so I hoped than one day I would gain the perfect opportunity. And I was right! Two weeks ago I looked into the newspaper and saw a lovely obituary for your greatest protector.“

 

Mummy had insisted on the obituary. Sherlock had been against it because he knew that Mycroft would roll his eyes at it, but she didn’t want to hear any protests. The mans fingers touched his lips and Sherlock flinched, disgusted, but he only laughed.

 

“You should become used to my touch.“

 

What did he mean? Surely not- suddenly he viewed the table in a whole different light. The man pulled out a needle from his pocket and rolled up his sleeve. Sherlock was only able to watch, frozen. All of the hard work he and John had done to get him clean again, to secure a non-drug future for them, was about to be nullified. His captor must have noticed his concern, because he smiled reassuringly.

 

“Don’t worry, it’s only a sedative. You can rest for a bit while I move you to a different location.“

 

He patted his cheek. Sherlock's world dissolved into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlocks world dissolved into nothingness.

 

You could say that Mycroft died doing what he loved: being an obnoxious bastard. No, that’s not fair. His brother died on a sunny day on the 21th of January in his office at the Diogenes Club, in the presence of his murder, a soldier and his little brother.

 

(John had held him the whole night. He had listened to his tears and his muffled cries. He had listened to his grief and to his anger. He had rocked him back and forth. For eight hours they had shared this small hospital bed and since then the bed in Baker Street.)

 

Anthea visited them three days after, carrying Mycrofts will and his signature ring. The ring was now lying beside the skull above the fireplace and Sherlock was rich. (Sherlock would have thrown all of this into the void just to have one last talk.)

 

His parents moved back to Sussex, weary with grief and John had moved into Sherlocks bedroom. He wanted them to wait, to give Sherlock time, but the detective didn’t want to hear anything about it. We waited long enough, he said and then kissed John breathlessly.

 

Sherlock had come to the conclusion that kissing John was the best thing ever. A simple touch of their lips fired up a thousand fireworks. It was salvation and damnation all at once. He would be happy if only he got to kiss John Watson for the rest of his life.

 

They haven’t progressed much further from that. Sherlock had been lying in Johns lap on Bond night (dreadful movies, but they made John laugh), John had taken his hand during breakfast (after that Sherlock spent hours categorizing Johns lovely and strong hand. There was so much to find out!), John had nuzzled his face into his curls, Sherlock had dragged John on top of him and they had a snogging session (Johns body was heavy and warm and never failed to make Sherlock feel protected and treasured), John had. Sherlock had.

 

Their relationship was exciting and fresh and new and it made Sherlock smile until his face hurt. It was everything he ever dared to dream of (and so much more).

 

Still, they always had their clothes on. John wanted to go-slow in that aspect, to fully to enjoy it. The first big fight was about Johns work. Sherlock hated it that John spent so much time in that clinic, when he should rather stay at Baker Street, with him, where he belonged (he knew it was selfish of him, which made him hate the clinic even more). (The work was also the place where John had met Sarah and Mary. That wife. Was it that irrational to think that maybe John would find someone else there, someone not Sherlock, who would make John happier than he ever could?)

 

John had stormed to work on that morning and Sherlock went to Tesco to buy milk. They drugged and stuck him into the back of a car, and what-if no one will ever find him again because there is no Mycroft to check the camera and John might already fall in love with another woman?

 

They shouldn’t have waited. When will they ever learn their lesson? Danger was looming everywhere and fate was never kind. John would have made Sherlocks first time spectacular. He would have opened him, finger for finger, carefully, reassuringly, and then he would have entered him and they would have come together in domestic bliss. John would have cleaned them both up and they would have cuddled and probably fight for the blanket. Maybe this vision was a bit too perfect, but everything else would have been better than this reality Sherlock was slowly waking up to.

 

* * *

 

 

He was now laying on the hard table, like a corpse in Mollys morgue. Both his hands and feet were strapped to the cold surface, mouth now full with ball gag that made saliva run down his chin. He had only seen this sort of device in a porno and he disliked it. His jaw was already beginning to hurt. The man was slowly opening every button of his shirt, and each time another one plopped open he leaned down and kissed his chest. Sherlock shivered, repulsed.

 

“You’re awake right on time.“

 

The man was done with his shirt and he caressed his waist. His now uncovered hands were ice-cold.

 

“You are so beautiful.“

 

He licked Sherlocks chest from navel to his collarbone and Sherlock jerked back so hard that his head was knocked back to the edge of the table.

 

“Shhhhh, don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.“

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. The nerve of this man, saying these seemingly comforting words while he sexually assaulted him.

 

“Hey!“

 

He slapped him brutally on both cheeks.

 

“Open your eyes!“

 

Sherlock did what he was told, face burning. He starred up to his captor, eyes full of hate. The man didn’t notice or ignored that.

 

“I want you to look at me the whole time. You will witness everything I’m doing with you, or it will be much worse for you. Do you understand me?“

 

Sherlock forced himself to nod once. This seemed to satisfy him.

 

“Good. I will have some fun with you now and after I will take you, so I want you to enjoy this one now. You won’t be around for the second time.“

 

What the hell was this men talking about?

 

“Let’s just say that I don’t like fucking men when they are alive.“

 

The kidnapper pointed at the hook. A noose was hanging from it now, and Sherlock understood.

 

John, please. Hurry up John! Hurry up John!

 

* * *

 

 

It was supposed to be a normal meeting between the two siblings.Mycroftt had texted him to meet him at the Diogenes Club, alone, and Sherlock had grudginglyy complied. He figured that his brother probably found out another terrible lie from Mary and was this time soconsiderated to leave it to Sherlock to break the news to John. He should have questioned the text message. Shouldn’t have come alone. He wasn’t that stupid after all, but Mary always brought out the worst of him.

 

It all went down fast. Mary was never one of those criminals who talked so much that the victims could be rescued without a lost hair. She was smart and efficient. Maybe that’s what John liked about her at the beginning. They all exchanged some hateful and pleading words. Then John suddenly came and everything escalated. Mary was faster and Mycroft was dead and government agents were there and Mary was cackling and screaming „I KILLED HOLMES“ and-

 

Someone had given him an orange blanket and Sherlock was reminded of his and Johns first case. A Study in Pink. That was also the day when John had met Mycroft. Mycroft. His blood was everywhere on the expensive Persian carpet.

 

John should have called it a Study in Red after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“I have never tried this on a virgin anymore, but I guess this will hurt a little.“

 

The man opened his flies. So, this was going to happen. Sherlock wasn’t able to scream, to cry or fight. Even closing his eyes as a respite was not an option anymore. This captor had literally stripped him of all his defenses. Surely John is already on his way? His work day ended at 4pm and normally he would drive straight back to Baker Street. Due to their fight he might not do that and instead take a walk or go to a pub. How much time had passed since he was taken? Four, five hours? It felt like ages. If Mycroft was still alive, he would have watched it all with his cameras and John would have come and would have shot this man before he got to touch Sherlock. John was always so protective of him. On their first day he shot the cabbie. On their 1651 day he shot his wife.

 

His kidnapper didn’t waste much time with working him open. He showed him a huge and wide plug (really, what a terrible word).

 

“I selected one that was approximately the same size as my cock. That way you get a feeling of it and I’m saving time.“

 

He giggled and pressed his (wet) lips on his forehead. His one hand moved to his hips and caressed it (almost lovingly), the other held the plug to his entrance and pushed.

Sherlock couldn’t stop the muffled scream that came out of his (gagged) mouth, which resulted in more saliva (humiliating). The rational part of his mind told him that Marys bullet hurt much more than this, but the other half of his brain was in full panic mode. The plug was pushed deeper and deeper inside of him and (oh god) it burned so much. His hole was slowly widened and it just felt invasive and so wrong. The man shhhhhh-ed at him again while he was invading his body and Sherlock felt (with deep shame) tears rolling down his cheek.

Let it be over, he prayed. Let it be over.

 

* * *

 

 

Let it be over.

Mary held Mycroft in a sort of embrace, her small gun pushed to the back of his head. His brother was kneeling on the ground and Sherlock stood before them, feeling so damn helpless. He was unarmed, because he didn’t expectMycroftt to fall like this. They weren’t close since their childhood, always fighting and competing against each other, but a small part of Sherlock always knew that his big brother would always have his back. Whenever he got into trouble, he relied onMycroftt to get him out of it, and Mycroft always had. Now Mary was here, grinning at both of them, wagging her eyebrows. She was enjoying this. Killing them both was going to be her greatest triumph, her golden medal.

 

“That’s your biggest mistake, Sherlock. You trust people too easily.“

 

It’s sort of funny, really. The assassin was accusing him, a self-proclaimed sociopath, of caring too much. Maybe she was right. His emotions had gotten them both in this situation. Now his brother was a hostage to Moriartys best killer and there was nothing he could do.

 

“You must have noticed right away that Mary Morstan is a facade. Yet you played on, all for John’s sake. You even called me your friend!“

 

Yes, he had done that. He came back from two years away and this woman had mended John Watson together. She made him smile and he loved her. So how could he hate her or try to take John away from her? Loving John was so easy and being loved by him in return was the greatest gift he could imagine. Sherlock truly believed that Mary had loved (loves) John, because how could she not? But her love was not good. John had called it a selfish form of love and Sherlock agreed with him.

She started to work at the same clinic as he did, they became friends, they dated, they moved in together, Mary accepted his non-proposal, they married, Mary became non-pregnant for a while, Mary shot Sherlock in the chest, Sherlock shot Magnussenn in the head, Moriarty appeared on a video-

John is there now. He and Mary are screaming at each other, but all Sherlock can fathom is Mycrofts eyes on his and his smile.

 

“I am so proud of you, Sherlock.“

 

Mary shot Mycroft in the heart. John shot Mary in the leg. The circle is complete and John held him for hours to save him from falling apart.

 

They decided that they wouldn’t let Mary win. Both Sherlock and John deserved more than that.

 

* * *

 

 

Both Sherlock and John deserved more than that. The man was seemingly finished with it and Sherlock was a shaking and crying mess. It hurt so much. He felt ready to throw up. He felt empty and somehow too full.

 

“Now for the main attraction!“

 

The man moved around the table and opened all of his restraints. Sherlock should have been able now to push him away, to punch him, but he couldn’t even lift one of his fingers. The captor unbuckled the ball gag.

 

“Do you want to say something to me?“

 

Not even one word came over his dry lips. Sherlock was shaken to the core. He tried to move his legs but pain and more discomfort immediately wandered over his whole body. More tears shot into his eyes and he couldn’t prevent them from falling down. The man helped him seat and rubbed his back in (soothing) circles, which made Sherlock shake even more.

 

“Don’t worry. It will all be over soon.“

 

His captor snapped handcuffs on his wrists carefully rolled him of the table. To Sherlocks horror he couldn’t stand without help and had to be guided to the noose. The man let go of him for a second to place the wooden chair under the hook. He then grabbed Sherlock by his hands and put him on the chair. He moved around and laid the noose around his neck. Sherlock could sense the panic creeping in. He always knew that he would die young and probably in a very brutal way. Maybe an assassin, like Mary, maybe some dumb criminal who had a lucky day, maybe the government would execute him but he never thought it would go like this. Calm, clean and without any resistance on his part (because there was a thing stuck into him and it had sucked all of his energy out of his sagging body and he was still shaking and still sweating-) The man tightened the noose around his neck.

 

Hanging was seen by many people as a quick and painless death, but there are actually four different ways for this method. The Oxford English Dictionary states that hanging in this sense is “specifically to put to death by suspension by the neck.“

The first method of judicial hanging is the Suspension. The weight of the body causes the tightening of the noose around the trachea neck structure. There is no struggle and the person often goes immediately limp because their jugular vein and carotid arteries are blocked and the blood flow to the brain is reduced. Death by strangulation takes about ten to twenty minutes. It is presumed to very painful due to the victims struggle for air against the compression of the noose and against the weight of the body.

The body. Would John ever find him? Maybe the man would burn him or throw him away. Maybe his corpse would be discovered weeks from now. Molly would probably do the autopsy to spare him from another stranger touching him. She would notice the marks a rapist makes on his victims and John would know. Would he be able to move on? Sherlock desperately hoped so. Making John Watson happy was his main goal of his life. John would be devastated, but surely he would manage to soldier on. Maybe he will find a new person to make him happy. Someday.

His captor had chosen the short drop for him. He would die slowly and in agony. The man stood on his tiptoes, caressed his cheeks and pressed his (disgusting) lips on Sherlocks. It felt revolting and made Sherlock shake more. This was the last thing he would feel and this monster would be the last person to touch him.

The man stepped back and kicked the stool away. The noose tightened around his neck and Sherlock fell. It became impossible to breath.

 

* * *

 

 

It became impossible to breath.

It was his brothers funeral and there were only a few people attending. Of course his parents were there and Anthea and Lady Smallwood also sat in the third row but after them no one came.

 

_“Caring is not an advantage.“_

 

Mycrofts life had always been his work, but surely this couldn’t be it, right? How could you be on this earth for 45 years and not impact more people?

 

_“The Ice man.“_

 

Was this what Mycroft envisioned? An empty funeral, a brutal death? The door opened and Lestrade and Molly (holding hands) entered the church. They shook Mummys and Dads hand, nodded at him and sat down in the last row. The service began and John took Sherlocks hand. He hadn’t visited his fake funeral three years ago, but Mycroft had told him that there was a gaggle of reporters spectators, that Mrs Hudson had cried, that Molly wasn’t there and that John had held himself perfectly straight with no emotions on his face. There was no speech, his fake ashes were thrown into the grave and that was it.

 

“Would someone like to say something about the deceased?“

 

Sherlock looked around, curious, but no one stood up. His father was silently crying and his mother face was ashen. He noticed that both Anthea and Mrs Smallwood were looking at him expectantly.

Oh.

They thought he should say something. Sherlock could feel the shame pooling in his stomach. He hadn’t prepared something, hadn’t even thought about it. John had told him that everything would be fine and he believed it. Stupid! Of course everyone thought he would hold the eulogy. He was Mycrofts brother and he was there by his side when he died. Except he hadn’t been by his side. He had stood there, with weak knees and felt the powerlessness creeping in. There was nothing to comfort anyway, just a puddle of blood and a shattered brain.

 

_“All hearts are broken.“_

 

During his two years Sherlock had come to the conclusion that all of his brothers lessons were ultimately wrong. He wasn’t able to follow his path any longer. He loves John Watson, and he broke his heart when he married someone else but in the end everything worked out perfectly between the two of them, right? John was rubbing his thumb over his hand and whispered:

 

“It’s okay.“

 

And so Sherlock said nothing and the coffin was lowered into the ground.

* * *

 

 

Every thought dissolved into garbled mess, burning mess and an unstoppable hunger for air.

He was dangling from the ceiling, swaying hence and forth. His hands fought against the cuffs, straining to rip the noose from his neck. His feet were dancing in the air. It must look horrible. It felt like someone had stuck a hot iron into multiple parts of his body. John would only find another body. There would be a free room at 221b Baker Street. Lestrade would (unsuccessfully) try to find his murderer, Mrs Hudson would cry and Molly would cut his body open. John would be alone, again. No child, no wife, no Sherlock. He would have failed him, again and again and again.

Sherlock was chocking and spluttering and his face was probably already turning red too-

A sudden and LOUD bang erupted into the room, and a second later strong arms caught his shaking legs and heaved him up. Sherlock was finally able to breath again. One of his eyes was full of fluids. Blood?

John was here. He had pushed the man aside and was now pushing him up for a few precious seconds to catch some much-needed air. His captor was struggling to stand again.

 

“Take a deep breath.“, John said, and attacked the kidnapper again.

 

Sherlock did what he was told and John let him go again. More aggressive sounds followed, multiple punches were thrown. It took John too long and soon Sherlock had no air left. The burning began anew. His chest hurt like mad, as he would be suffering multiple heart attacks. There was no feeling left in his arms and legs, and he could sense how his eyes slowly closed.

He was falling endlessly. John caught him. Again he wrapped his arms around him and pushed him up. His lips were moving without a pause, and Sherlock wished he could understand him but there seemed to be water in his ears. It took several minutes for him to regain his composure. Everything felt so surreal. Did he really get that lucky again? It looked like that. John was rubbing his back and had pressed his face into his stomach, hiding his face. _Oh John_.

 

When the doctor could hear his breathing slowing down he moved a step aside, grabbed the chair and placed it under his feet. Sherlock would have collapsed on it but John snatched one of his arms around his hip to keep him on his feet. He carefully climbed on the chair too and untied the noose from the hook. Johns arms were immediately around him again and he laid him down on the ground (he must have noticed that Sherlock never wanted to be on that table again).

 

Finally, he was able to hear the words John had been saying the whole time. It was basically a lot of swearing with some comforting words threw in. Sherlock nearly smiled at this normalcy. John chucked his jacket and formed it into a pillow for Sherlock to lose while he rolled him into the recovery position.

 

“I’m here. Don’t worry, the bastard won’t ever hurt you again. I’m here now. Fuck. Fuck that piece of shit. Keep your breathes even. Fuck. Shhh, don’t talk yet, your throat needs to recover from that fucking- shit.“

 

His hands fluttered around his neck where the first bruises were appearing.

 

“Wait a second. Breath, for god’s sake, I’m not leaving.“

 

John got up and walked behind Sherlock. Some grunts were heard until he came back to free him of his handcuffs. His hands dropped to his side. The sharp restraints had rubbed his wrists raw to the point of bleeding. Now that he didn’t feel like someone was jumping on his chest he realized that there still something in his body. As much as the thought of stripping again made him nauseated, he wanted that damn thing out of him now.

 

“John.“, he croaked. Christ, his neck hurt.

 

The doctor took both of his hands and rubbed them to make the blood flow again.

 

“Don’t talk yet. Lestrade is on his way and we will get you to the hospital in no time.“

 

That’s what scared him. He forced himself to move his hands out of Johns comforting grip and tried to wriggle out of his trousers.

 

“What are you doing?“

 

John tried to stop him, but Sherlock was able to produce another helpless: “John.“

 

His trousers and pants were now down to his knees, and John saw the abomination at once. His face did something complicated. Shock, horror, sadness and then so much anger. His eyes were shooting sparks.

 

“Okay. I mean-okay. I’m gonna take that out now, okay? It’s going to hurt, but I will be carefully.“

 

Sherlock managed a nod and Johns hand moved to his entrance while his other hand rubbed his stomach soothingly. It hurt for a few seconds, but then that thing was finally out of him. Some blood was rolling down his thigh. John starred for a few seconds at the plug, then he threw it away. They both could hearfeets running down the corridor outside of the room, and John hastily redressed him. When Lestrade and two other sergeants finally entered the room, they found them both huddled together with John trying to raise every trace the man had left on Sherlocks body.

 

* * *

 

 

After two days they were finally back at Baker Street, their sanctuary. They were lying in the grand bed in Sherlocks room, and he had just managed to tell John of the (six) hours he had spent in the capacity of Mr. Culverton. John had hugged him from behind and listened to him without interrupting once, which Sherlock was very thankful for. He didn’t believe he could have started his gruesome tale again.

There were multiple minutes of silence after he had finished.

 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t arrive sooner.“

 

“You arrived right on time.“

 

“I should have prevented it.“

 

Silence again. Sherlock rolled around and pressed his lips lightly on Johns.

 

“You saved me.“

 

John sighted and pushed one of his errand curls out of his eyes.

 

“Not from sexual harassment.“

 

There it was.

Sherlock pressed his face into John shoulder. The doctor cupped his head with his strong hands and caressed his hair.

 

“I-.“, he stopped for a moment and tried again. “I will need time.“

 

John pressed a short kiss on his forehead: “Of course. Take all the time you need.“

 

Sherlock smiled. John stretched around him and clicked the light out. They were wrapped in darkness. A brilliant idea came to him. He had to redo a mistake.

 

“I want to go to Mycrofts grave tomorrow.“

 

“We can leave right after breakfast.“

 

“Good. I have something to tell him.“

 

Everything was going to be okay. They had each other, after all. There would be new danger ahead, but they would struggle through. They have survived, gunshots, rooftop chases, several girlfriends, explosions, bombs, a fall, two years, a wedding, a gun wound, a killing and a wife.  1679 days. All the pain, all the suffering was definitely worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so why do I always write basically the same story? Because I can. I'm always open for constructive criticism and if you notice any language/grammar mistakes, please tell me.


End file.
